God’s Gifts
On January 7, 1999, when I called my mother to wish her a happy birthday, I immediately knew something was wrong. When I asked what had happened, she told me that her beloved brother, Gene, had died from a heart attack earlier in the day. I was devastated. Gene was the person in my extended family with whom I experienced the deepest connection. A graduate of Harvard Divinity School, he gave me his theological library when I went to seminary. We both followed the same path from the Southern Baptist Convention to the Episcopal Church. He was my first model for how to live an open-minded, intellectually curious and faithful Christian life.
Twenty-five years later, I still miss him. How I wish he could experience St. Paul’s! I know he would love the choir, the beauty of our church and the vitality of our community. He would be grateful for our full acceptance of the LGBTQ community, knowing he and his partner would be embraced and loved here.
I’m struck this year that I’ve now outlived him. He was 60 years old when he died; I’m 61. As I get older, the combined anniversary of my late mother’s birthday and my uncle’s death reminds me that life is short and unpredictable. Noting this doesn’t fill me with existential dread. Quite the opposite. It reminds me that life is precious, a gift from God to be embraced and to offer.
On my uncle’s grave marker is a quote. I don’t know where it comes from, though the evidence suggests he may have written it as a part of a Christmas letter in 1989. “Life’s mysteries and miracles are ours to seize and share, beginning this year and never ending.”
Perhaps this particular anniversary is why I find myself resisting my long to-do list populated by the items I put off until after the first of the year. I’m not yet ready to let go of the Christmas season. I want to linger a bit longer in front of the Christmas tree, listen one more time to my favorite holiday music, soak in the wonder of God’s love given to us in the birth of Jesus. I want a little more time to ponder the mysteries and miracles of the Incarnation, the reality of God with us.
On a narrow wall that connects our dining room with our living room we have a small print with a quote from an unknown author. It’s a good reminder that it is acceptable to set aside our to-do lists, to make time to sit, to watch, to be grateful and then to share with others all that God gives us.
If, as Herod, we fill our lives with things, and again with things…
If we consider ourselves so unimportant that we must fill every moment of our lives with action,
when will we have the time to make the long, slow journey across the desert as did the Magi?
Or sit and watch the stars as did the shepherds?
Or brood over the coming of the child as did Mary?
For each of us, there is a desert to travel. A star to discover.
And a being within ourselves to bring to life.
